He found himself continually comparing these two. Would Katie be so glad at seeing him again as Dolores had been at meeting him? Would Katie take so much trouble for the sake of speaking to him? On the other hand, would Dolores be so gay, so happy, and so merry when torn from him? and would Dolores look upon him in his loneliness with such a smile of indifference and light-hearted mirth? Never! Dolores had a deeper nature. In the glance of Dolores her inmost soul had been revealed. At its recollection his nerves thrilled, his heart throbbed faster. He longed to hear her voice again. And thus, as the hours passed, the image of Katie faded away, and that of Dolores grew more strongly defined; the image of Dolores as she had last appeared to him—pale, sad, anxious, earnest, her eyes fixed upon him with deep, intense melancholy and profound pity.
"Afar away from thee,
Thy pale face haunts me yet;
Deep yearns my heart for thee,
Thy last sad look and word unable to forget."
These words occurred to him, and he murmured them to himself. It was to Dolores that he applied them, and naturally too; for how ridiculously inapplicable to Katie would they be! All else was now forgotten except Dolores. He felt a longing after her that was like homesickness. The past all came back. He recalled her as she had been when he first met her at Valencia. A thousand little incidents in his life there, which had been for a time forgotten, now revived in his memory. He had been for months at their house and had been nursed through a long illness. He had been loaded with kindness and affection. The aged mother had been his nurse during his illness, and Dolores had been his companion during his convalescence. He had left them, expecting soon to return. Circumstances, however, had arisen which kept him away, and he had forgotten her. Now, however, a stronger feeling had arisen for her, as Dolores had appeared in more than her olden beauty, with the additional charm of a strange, pathetic grace, and a wistful look in her dark eyes that seemed to speak of something more than ordinary friendship. She had spoken of the days at Valencia; she had reproached him for forgetting. She herself had not forgotten those days—the days in which they used to talk and walk and sing together.
As there was nothing to divert his mind from these thoughts, Ashby gave himself up to them, and thus became more helpless against them. It was in such a mood as this that he lay upon his rude couch, unable to sleep, and wondering what was to be the end of his present adventure. Should he ever see her again? Was she here now, or had they let her go? The thought that she might possibly have been set free, that she might now be far away, was too distressing to be entertained. If so, then his prison seemed doubly dark. If so, then what could he do? Even if he should become free, what was he to do? Upon one thing he was resolved, and that was to seek after her until he might find her. And Katie? Well, the fact is, Katie was left out of consideration.
Hours had passed. Ashby could not sleep. His mind was as active as ever, and still, as ever, his thoughts all gathered about Dolores.
Suddenly, in the very midst of these thick-teeming fancies, his attention was arrested by a strange sound.
It was only a slight rustle, scarce audible, yet still he heard it, and under such circumstances it seemed most mysterious. In an instant he was all attention. He lay motionless, yet listened with intense watchfulness, peering at the same time into the dark room, where the moonlight struggled through the low, narrow windows.
After a little while he thought that he heard the sound again. He listened, without motion.
Then there came a different sound. It was a low whisper—a whisper which, however, penetrated to his very soul:
"Assebi!"